


Take My Crown Away (Don’t Smile So Sweetly, My Love)

by akingdomofunicorns



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingdomofunicorns/pseuds/akingdomofunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A world where everything is easier. Except for those who love, and love too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Crown Away (Don’t Smile So Sweetly, My Love)

He had been nine the first time he understood the difference there was in his feelings for Sansa when comparing her to Arya. Sansa was six and she was a lovely child, she had always been, but even at such a young age she understood fully, unlike Arya, what it meant to be a bastard, where that left him. She was not cruel, for there was not an ounce of cruelty in his lovely sister, but she was not affectionate with him either, she could not afford to be affectionate with him when there was always Robb near, Robb with his laugh and his smiles and his heritage and the same blood as hers, or Theon, who was loud and gallant in a way, when he was not being stupid. There was no special place in her life for him, a quiet bastard boy that did not stood out at all but for his blood.

He was ten when he decided he was too tired to keep trying; Sansa only ever called him her half-brother, and would never call him anything else by then —Lady Stark had made sure of that and though he understood it was his father’s fault (not Lady Catelyn’s, not Sansa’s), it still hurt deep and true, it stung and burnt and he had every right to be bitter.

He was eleven when she came to him with her hair braided and pinned atop her head, with just a few loose curls falling down her face and sticking to her brow and her lips, pink like the flowers he had saw her picking up not two days past.

“There was a girl who said she wanted to marry you,” she said, sitting beside him on his bed.

She was lovely, newly eight and growing fast, her hair redder by the day and her cheeks always flushed. He thought she looked like one of the fairies from Old Nan’s stories; she looked like a princess from a song, all red and white, cream and blue and collarbones sprinkled with tiny freckles, orange and brown and sweet. There had been talk of marrying her off to an Umber when she came off age, but it had all been idle gossip and it had come to nothing in the end; he had thought that Winterfell would miss her warm beauty and her soft smiles, and he would greatly miss the way her hair curled passed her shoulders or how her teeth where slightly crooked at the bottom. He had thought he’d miss all the little imperfections no one else cared to notice, those things that made her more a real girl and less an unattainable ilusion, like how she hissed at Arya when no one was close enough to see her behave less a lady and more a young girl, or how she fought with Robb for the last lemoncake or how she’d throw her quill away when she couldn’t get her sums right.

He did not know how to answer her, though, and so he stayed silent —she was not like Arya, who cared nothing for mannerism and courtesies; Sansa liked pretty things, she liked them neat and tidy, soft and sweet and shiny, she liked beautiful words and songs that made her heart flutter and her eyes shine in ecstasy; she liked dresses with golden brocade and pearls of white and silver sewed to the neckline and maybe even sharing a lemoncake or two with some handsome knight if she felt daring enough. He did not know how to talk with Sansa, just as he did not know how to talk to women in general.

“She was very fair,” she said, smiling at him.

He didn’t know what Sansa was trying to tell him, but he forced himself to say something, anything, if only to make her happy.

“And who was this fair maiden, Sansa?”

“Just some girl who thought you handsome. You are not going to marry her, though, are you?”

“No, I mean to take the Black.”

He thought he saw some displeasure in her face, but if it ever was there, she was quick to hide it. She had lovely eyes, he thought, as lovely as spring and winter. _They ought to be cold,_ he wanted to tell her, _they ought to be cold and fierce and mean_. But instead they looked nothing but sweet and accepting, something he did not get to see often, and she was looking straight at him, all but begging him to smile at her in return and hold her in his embrace. He did not reach for her though, but he did smile and when her smile broadened, he was glad to have been brave enough to give her that small gesture. He didn’t fathom himself a craven, but there was something about Sansa that always made him weak in the knees.

“You will not marry anyone but the realm, then. You are ours, Jon, ours and mine and no silly girl may take you from us, from me.”

She left him there to ponder at her words and he couldn’t figure out what to make of them; but he did remember how her voice had sounded like water and honey while pulling the furs tighter around him and he did remember how her eyes sparkled in the candlelight while trying to find some sleep. He wondered if there had ever been a bastard who had seen so many little things about their own sister and he wondered what that could mean for him, about him. 

* * *

If there’d ever been a prettier girl than Sansa, he did not wish to meet her. It did strange things to his belly even thinking of her and so he tried to think of her as little as possible. It was quite the impossible task when she was always everywhere, always near him somehow and he found himself often wondering whether her skin tasted as sweet and creamy as it looked. It was sinful, he knew, how his hands itched to touch her, grab at her shoulders, drag his fingers down her back, leaving hot, red marks on her that would stay there for days, making her his. He hadn’t had anything to claim as his own that were not clothes or weapons or a toy or two he had shared with Robb when they were boys (a sword at his thirteenth nameday, a dagger from Robb because he was feeling generous) and so the thought of Sansa calling herself his made his cheeks flush and his hand often creep underneath his breeches at night, much to his own embarrassment.

Arya announced she was going to marry him so she wouldn’t need to marry anyone at all (and it must’ve made sense to her, since she seemed convinced about it) when she was nine. Robb and Father had smiled and Theon had laughed loudly at the little slip of a girl who was glaring at anyone who dared contradict her. For all that Sansa praised herself on being gentle and sweet and a _lady_ , he found that she could be rather nasty where Arya was involved and oftentimes they ended up screaming at each other; Sansa often won those arguments too, for she didn’t exactly play fair, with her venemous words designed to hurt her sister in a certain way, and Arya was way too hot-tempered to do anything more than stomp her foot and call Sansa stupid.

“You cannot,” snapped Sansa, “he is your _brother_.”

Jon almost choked on air alone at the use of that word. The look Sansa was giving Arya, blue and cold and cruel, furious even, if he looked close enough, was enough to make him think that mayhaps he was not the only one who had thought that the thin line that separated them was blurring, like rain erasing footprints in the sand. 

* * *

“I have a lovely voice, don’t I, Jon?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish to hear me sing? I am adept with poetry, too, if you don’t wish to hear me sing.”

“Your voice is lovely, Sansa, I would love to hear you sing.”

Sansa smiled and put away the piece of embroidery she had been working on —a handkerchief of blue silk which she had been decorating with images in silver thread. He was sure it was going to be beautiful, like everything Sansa did.

She took a seat beside him with her harp and began to play with deft fingers, the music flowing like melting snow under the sun. He thought it sounded sweet, but he knew nothing of music, much to his embarrassment at the moment. But his ignorance could not stop him from enjoying it, could it? No, it was not possible to not enjoy anything Sansa did, for she was sweet and pretty and gentle, a kind soul come to the world to soften its harshness with her loving nature.

His love for her was much like her music, something he couldn’t understand, something right there for him to grab but still too far away from him. _Something that’s not mine to have_ , he thought, seeing her lips wrap themselves around the words of the song. Goosebumps rose where her breath hit his skin and her eyes seemed even more blue than usual. _I am going to drown and there’ll be nothing she can do, it’s for her I’d die._

He wondered if there’d ever been a bastard who had loved his own sister like so. He was afraid to find out.

* * *

Sansa kissed him the day she bled for the first time. It was noon when they saw each other (when she’d decided to join him in his chambers, her hair braided over her shoulder and a pretty dress of purple wool hugging her soft curves) and she smelled of rosewater after being cleaned up, though the blood kept licking at her thighs in its haste to run down her legs.

She’d come to him, a woman already, and she’d pressed her lips against his. He thought, for a moment, that the ground had broken under his feet.

* * *

 _I am the most selfish of men_ , he thought, while he let his fingertips caress Sansa’s bare back. There was a lovebite right at the crease of her thigh, where it met the place where she tasted sweetest, and another under her breast, where he’d licked until it almost turned purple.

Sansa lay on his bed, all pale skin and pink cheeks, sweat dripping down her back and her forehead, sated and tired. He had taken her like a husband takes his wife (twice he had taken her, greedy as he was) and he had spilled his seed once on her stomach and a second time on her back, where it was drying, sticky and white and dirty. He had ruined her for good, for every other man who’d ever dare ask for her hand. He could feel the shame creep up his chest to his neck to choke him, but he didn’t care much for them, the others who could have a chance with her; he felt selfish and foul and mean, but he did not have it in him to care: bastards’ blood runs hot and tainted, it boils with desire and bloodlust and it burns their brains; there was no chance for him to resist her, not when she was smiling at him so sweetly.

“It won’t happen again,” he told her and they both knew he was lying.

* * *

The night it was announced she was to marry the Prince, he did not sleep at all.

* * *

She came to him two nights later, when he’d thought she’d never come again, and she asked him to take her slowly so she could remember it later, when her husband was taking her as his wife. He did as she’d asked him, because he was never able to refuse her anything. 

* * *

“I want to be Queen,” she told him, cringing when he shifted underneath her, “but I don’t want to marry anyone but you.”

He loved the times he got to stay in bed with her for awhile —he liked the weight of her head on his shoulder, the naked warmth of her body against his, her red hair spilling all around them and her lips so very near for him to kiss… He liked it when he got to take her more than once, when he could take his time to taste her and memorise her body.

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be Queen. After your marriage, I’ll take the black.”

“I don’t want you so far away from me.”

He closed his eyes, knowing he had to say what he was thinking even if it would hurt her.

“You can’t ask me to stay, Sansa. You can’t ask me to stay and watch you bear his children.”

“But surely there must be something else you…”

“Don’t. You’ve always known I’d take the black.”

“I thought… I thought perhaps if…”

“We can’t.”

Sansa raised from the bed. He could see she was ashamed, but for what, he wasn’t sure.

“You are right. You will be a Brother of the Night’s Watch and I’ll be Queen and we will both do our duty,” she said after she had composed herself. “We cannot be selfish anymore, we cannot let ourselfs disgrace this family anymore.”

* * *

Father leaves for the South with Sansa, Arya and Bran and he goes North, to the Wall. He dreams of leaving Castle Black, of riding all day (and half the night, if he’s honest with himself) with his Uncle Benjen, he dreams of being a hero.

The first time he leaves the castle, it’s to go South with his uncle to attend his sister’s wedding. The thought sours the bittersweet feeling of being a Brother and he has to remind himself that Sansa is his _sister_ (as if the thought had worked all the other times he had forced himself to think of it).

* * *

It was impossible not to see her: she was standing beside Robb, wearing a dress of purple samite and with her hair coiled atop her head with just one curl of red hair falling down her back at the nape of her neck. He had never forgotten how beautiful she was, but in the months she had stayed in the South, she had grown taller, her skin had gotten a golden glow that was not there before and her hair was brighter and a lighter shade of red than it had been at the beginning. She looked like a proper lady that was to wed a Prince, and when he saw her smiling he remembered exactly why it was he was seeing her again.

He had been able to forget all about Sansa’s wedding when it was just him and Uncle Benjen on the road and a handful of other Brothers to keep them company, Brothers who cared nothing for the Starks in Winterfell and their pretty, little daughter marrying the Crown Prince. He had been able to forget Sansa’s last words when they had parted ways (“ _I shall miss you, Jon, when you are up north all dressed in black; but it is for the best, we both knew this could not go on any longer_ ”), her to her golden prince, him to the cold and dead Wall, up where the ice was as blue as Sansa’s eyes and where there was no trace of the flowers she so loved.

He saw her next to Robb, Arya by her side, and he thought mayhaps that was the Gods’ punishment for being born a bastard. 

* * *

Sansa looked lovely on the day of her wedding. Lovely and sad, and only he seemed to notice. 

* * *

“She shall be Queen Sansa,” Arya told him, sitting by him, “and she will be the greatest there ever was. But she doesn’t love him and neither does she desire him.”

“Do you pity her?”

Arya smiled at the fine strip of golden light that was peeking over the horizon; it was barely a line of pale white that stood out against the blue and the black of the sky, but it was enough to announce dawn.

“She is a Stark of Winterfell, she’s not to be pitied, but feared.”

“The South is not for the Starks. You should all be home, at Winterfell, away from here.”

“As should you. Look at the light, Jon, it seems so weak now, doesn’t it? Just a strip of sunshine to fight off the darkness. Hope breeds eternal misery, Jon, but it is so worth it, I swear it is.”

“You speak like Father, like Bran.”

Arya smiled and she seemed much older than her twelve years. She had grown too, while he was far away at the Wall; she was taller, though still petite, and her face was still long and stern, but her hair had grown past her waist and it curled under her ears (much like Sansa’s, though softer, less wild); her eyes were big and grey, all winter and home, her mouth was a perfect shape for her chin and her nose, her lips had gained some measure of shape and her eyebrows carried the weight of the expression of her eyes, curling and raising at her will, thick where they touched her nose, thinner as they neared her temples.

“I speak like a women. I speak like a sister.”

* * *

They found themselves in his bed, naked and desperate, three days after her marriage.

He tried to spit the sour feeling of treason, but Sansa’s mouth was on his, her legs were tightening around his waist and her breasts were crushed under his chest. He spent himself inside of her and in the morn, when he woke on his own bed —alone, cold, sick of himself, the King, his vows and that cold, damned Wall— he retched the contents of his stomach in a chamberpot. 

* * *

Arya’s betrothal to Lord Renly of Storm’s End was announced the night before he was to leave for the North again with new men, _boys_ , for the Watch. He found her crying on Sansa’s shoulder (Arya, who had _despised_ appearing weak in front of anyone, let alone Sansa).

He sat beside them, quiet as bastardy and nights of guarding the Wall had taught him.

* * *

The letter came nine moons later with Sansa’s name signed at the bottom; she had sealed it with golden wax and the sigil of House Stark and it announced the birth of the prince’s firstborn, prince Oryn Baratheon, the first of his name, a babe with the copper hair of his mother and the grey eyes of the Starks (“ _His eyes, Jon, they are so very beautiful; the grey of the Starks, like Father and Arya and_ yourself _,”_ it read and it was the stress on that last word, _yourself_ , that told him everything he needed to hear).

That night he made a toast to his sister’s firstborn. _To my son_ , he wanted to tell them, _to_ my _bastard firstborn, a son of incest and love_.

* * *

The second bastard came three years after the first, nine moons after Arya’s wedding to the King’s brother.

(He could still remember Arya’s maiden cloak and Lord Renly’s easy smile; the way his sister had looked at the bastard blacksmith from across the Hall while she was being dragged away in just her smallclothes; how Sansa had smiled sadly at him and had drowned her sorrow for her sister with honeyed wine or how her white stockings had been tied with ribbons of blue silk).

Sansa had named the little bastard princess Jorelle, a strong northern name with a southron ring to it to appease her prince and, like with Oryn, she had written to let him know that Jorie, like Rickon had taken to call her, had been born with a tuff of reddish hair, grey eyes and a long face, though she was still a baby and that could very well change.

(He could still remember Oryn’s shy eyes, the way he had clinged to his legs and had asked _pretty please_ for a tale of the wild north, his sweet smile and even sweeter voice; Oryn was spring and winter all at once, a child so lovely that seeing him had choked him more than once. Oryn was everything he couldn’t have, a bastard like himself, _his own child_ , but with a crown at his feet. Oryn was Sansa, and every feeling he’d ever felt —still felt— for her. Oryn was as much life as he was love.)

* * *

Arya’s letter came a year and a half later announcing the birth of Steffon Baratheon, a baby so big she had thought she was birthing a bull (he understood what she wasn’t saying, understood that there were more similarities between Sansa and Arya than anyone had thought at first and he could almost taste the vile rising up Gendry’s throat; it was a feeling he did not wish on anyone).

* * *

Ygritte reminded him enough of Sansa to make him break his vows. He retched later, when the taste of her still lingered on his lips and the memory of his sister’s moans mingled with the sound of the wind whistling through the leaves.

The wildling woman was not enough, no one would ever be.

* * *

King Robert dies five moons after his daughter’s marriage to Prince Trystante of House Martell, when the girl is starting to grow thick with child. He rides south with his Uncle Benjen to see his sister crowned queen and he finds a woman of three-and-twenty. He remembers her being eight, her hair braided and pinned atop her head, as if it was only yesterday.

* * *

“Oryn’s grown so much.”

Sansa smiled against his shoulder. He could feel her hair fanned all around them in its fiery glory.

“He is already eight. Jorelle is a girl of five.”

“I know.”

Sansa’s skin felt soft under his fingertips —she had told him more than once how much she loved to feel the callouses of his fingers against her skin, how alive it made her feel to know that there was something more than King’s Landing, something more than the Red Keep and its net of vipers.

“And yet they think of Joffrey as their father.”

Sansa looked up at him with eyes as hard as the ice of the Wall and for a moment he feared he had angered her.

“No matter what, Jon, no matter where you are or whether your breathing and alive or dead and cold under the soil you will _always_ be their father.”

He took her as many times as he was able that night and the ones that followed (he makes sure to spend himself inside her everytime, willing his seed to quicken in her womb).

* * *

The letter came seven moons later, before he was expecting it, and with it came the announcement of the birth of twins. He felt like crying, because it meant two more bastards wearing the name of Baratheon, babes with red hair and grey eyes and maybe even his nose, like Oryn and Jorelle before them.

“ _A boy and a girl,_ ” the letter said, “ _with dark, copper hair like my lady mother and grey eyes, though the boy’s eyes keep shifting to blue. I’ve named them Robert and Lyra, strong names for children of the North. Oryn’s taken to calling Robert just Robb affectionately, and Lyra is such a quiet babe, just like Father says you used to be. They are lovely, Jon, I wish you were all here with me. With us._ ”

* * *

There were no more bastards because there weren’t any more chances for them. Jon Snow died on the snow that had named him, with a lock of red hair between his fingers.

He died with the name of the woman he loved on his lips and his eldest daughter’s lock of hair on his hand. He died with a wildling’s axe burried deep within his chest, where a queen had lain many times before. He died with red spilling down his skin, red like his sister’s hair. 


End file.
